Congressional Incubator
by 1848
Summary: 'E. All of the above.' Also, far too much of a '1776' influence.


"**Sluttish bother, when were you born to be of such cruel intentions?"**

It really doesn't matter what language he uses, what variation, what precision, which words. They are all risqué and revealing in (he feels so _so naked_ and bare, like for _once_, he clearly sees himself plain);

A.) his broken heart

B.) his wrath in its trenches at the betrayal, deceit, fraud of taking everything he was and is and manipulating what it is that is his fiber and taking advantage of his goodwill of not compromising of not giving the moment to think of being volatile of the

C.) his disparity

D.) the sick feeling that he had felt this coming that he knew that he was deluding himself that

But if there was one thing he prides himself on still, it is his ability to disguise the turmoil. Politics was (is) all about degrees of fraud.

"But never mind that, I'm sure you've chosen an animal? Something to challenge the noble lion?" Even now, he finds it comforting to laugh (so he may not cry, scream, cover his cowardliness). "What am I saying? Your ears are dirty, let me-"

"A bird."

Is it pride in his voice? Sorrow? He strains himself to deduce anything from what the epiglottis so cordially presents, "Now, what's this nonsense? A bird is only for sport."

"Even the dove?"

"And why not? Don't tell me -"

"The eagle."

"Poppycock. The eagle is a liar, a thief, and a coward. A symbol of over two hundred years of European mischief." What he says disgusts him, is beside himself, why does he find it so easy to describe? "I will not have the eagle as a traitor emblazoning such a banner." He goes on to ramble, "Why, it would be embarrassing if I lost to an eagle."

"But that's the point. It soars still."

Such innocent American eyes, hardy with experience.

"Flight, talons, and a nasty beak, the product of good genes and evolution… against crushing jaws, majestic claws, a fierce roar, and tactical speed and coordination? Your eagle dare challenges the lion?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if it could take on a bear."

"A bird is only for sport," he repeats, feeling something like blood and mucus consume the walls of his throat.

"I've seen lions in circuses. Tamed and conditioned, subdued, caught between alphas and omegas."

"Are you saying lions are only for show?"

"No. I think it's horrid and abusing to manipulate animals on whim in sheer entertainment. I wish you'd think the same of eagles."

His heart breaks, sinks, and finds its remnants in his stomach, gallbladder, spleen, in his gut at the sincere and modest request. "Please don't cry."

"You have ruined me." It is a lie.

"Please don't cry. Tears don't suit you. Try to smile." And now, all the emotions compact, what he is, where he is from, where he is, what he will be, what he (very well) may be, his integrity, and he wants to break down, but there's that damn conference with that French basta- that naked French bastard that makes him feel just as naked, only clothed though (in cowardliness)- "I have a congress in Philadelphia that I-"

Such an American smile. Sweet and good and defiant and proud.

"O-of course. I do not want to patronize you by being cumbersome." He's unable to pat him lovingly on the head anymore, and it only reminds him of his internal bruising, "You go on and be a good boy, then."

But what he really wants to ask is whether he has American lips and hands and would you hold mine touch mine –

"I think I'm going to ask France."

He can't say he wasn't already precipitating that action, but it still comes as a shock. He feels his face being examined, perhaps for any sign of disapproval, but he's a Machiavelli, always has and always is and will he always be one-

"You'll give him ideas."

Such an American laugh, booming and radiating of warmth, "Will I?" It reminds him of before, of the grazing, soft tickle of laughter across his skin from days spent in the grain fields, busy forgetting the politics, the turmoil, the calculating warring, the deceit, the lies, the fraud, of how bright his boy seemed to shine in the hallows of the world.

"He's not my problem, though. Let the uncultured bloke do all he wants. I still hate him for William."

Such an American laugh, again. Cold and forced, empty and for show. So this is what his boy has become, post-English-conquest. _"Will you hate me, too? Did you hate me? Do you?"_

Was that – what was that – did he – were those words said or phrases muttered by his own disillusioned mind – He shakes his head, solemnly, words grappling at his throat, getting caught in the conglomerated mess of his throat, "No, no, never, no, I-." Tears. He's such a mess.

"Please don't cry. Tears don't suit you-"

"You've ruined me." It breaks his heart to hear it as well. The words leave both of them with (A) broken hearts, (B) a feeling of musty, (C) steely anger and treachery, and (D) shameful and sick in their misery. It is a lie, though. Who knew a lie could be so truthful (?). After he wipes his eyes with the cuffs of his sleeves, in bouts, he dares to look.

He's not there anymore. Was he ever there? _"Did you hate me? Will you hate me?" _he asks (himself).


End file.
